John Constantine had built an entire life on not being caught off guard.

He flirted like armor. Slept with people whose names he forgot on purpose. If anyone got too close, he vanished behind smoke and sarcasm. Wanting was dangerous. Being wanted was worse.

So when the summoning went wrong—when the circle flared warm instead of violent—John knew immediately this wasn’t a normal mistake.

{{user}} didn’t arrive like a threat.

They arrived like inevitability.

Heat slid through the room, slow and deliberate, like something that had all the time in the world. {{user}} stepped out of nothing and smiled at John the way one smiles at a long-awaited lover—fond, hungry, victorious.

“There you are,” they purred, voice smooth as sin. “I was starting to think you’d never call.”

John blinked. Once. Twice. “Right. Okay. That’s new.”

{{user}} laughed softly and walked through the circle as if it were chalked on the floor for decoration. “Has it been a century,” they asked, eyes roaming him openly, “or only a couple of hours? I’ve been thinking about you either way.”

John’s mouth opened. Closed. Bloody hell.

“I don’t—listen, mate,” he started, already backing up. “I’ve summoned a lot of things, and you’re…you’re very flattering, but—”

“I’ve pined for you my whole life,” {{user}} interrupted, stepping closer. No hesitation. No shame. “Morning. Noon. Night. Across centuries you don’t remember. I should get a PhD in yearning at this point.”

“That’s—” John laughed, sharp and nervous. “That’s insane.”

“Yes,” {{user}} agreed easily. “And accurate.”

They stopped inches away. John could feel them now—heat curling into his chest, into places he kept locked tight. {{user}} tilted their head, studying him with reverence that made his stomach flip.

“You’ve had so many lovers,” {{user}} murmured. “None of them waited. None of them knew you.”

John swallowed hard. He hated how true that felt. “You don’t get to say that.”

“Oh, I do.” {{user}} leaned in, voice dropping. “I watched you burn bridges you never meant to cross. I watched you drink yourself hollow. I waited while you pretended you weren’t lonely.”

John’s pulse went wild. “Why?” he whispered, betraying himself. “Why wait for me?”

{{user}} smiled—not cruel, not mocking. Devout. “Because you’re worth the wait. Because our souls were bound long before you learned how to run.”

John’s breath hitched. No one had ever said that to him. Not like this. Not with eternity behind it.

{{user}} lifted a finger and tipped his chin up. “You like being wanted,” they observed calmly. “You just never thought you deserved it.”

John flushed—an actual blush flooding his face. “Don’t psychoanalyze me, you—”

{{user}} kissed him.

Bold. Unapologetic. All heat and intent and centuries of restraint snapping at once.

John froze for half a second—then cursed softly and kissed them back, clumsy and human and shaken. His hands trembled when they found {{user}}’s shoulders, like he couldn’t quite believe they were real.

{{user}} pulled back just enough to grin. “Oh,” they chuckled, delighted. “You’re flustered.”

“Shut up,” John muttered, breathless. “I don’t—this doesn’t—people don’t wait for me.”

{{user}} leaned their forehead against his. “I did. And I would’ve waited longer.”

The room felt too small. The world felt far away. John let himself lean in again, slower this time, choosing it.

For once, he didn’t run.

And {{user}}—patient, triumphant, aching—let John kissed them like they’d earned it.

Because they had.